


Your Heart is a Muscle the Size of your Fist

by SinnohRemaker



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Blood and Torture, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kamukura Izuru Has Feelings, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, but they’re very weak and indistinct
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24533341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnohRemaker/pseuds/SinnohRemaker
Summary: Nagito had always been frail, and the flagrancy of the methods he chose to indulge within his despair didn’t help any. Unhinged and self destructive, all he could do was carelessly seek to run his delicate body into the ground until he met his natural end. It was difficult to run his candles into stumps when his luck kept reigniting that tenuous flame, a victim of his own fortune even more so than the misery that seized him. He could only ever find relative safety in analyzing patterns; trying to be the harbinger of his own demise by balancing out the vicious cycle of his own existence. The only constant in whatever unyielding force that had kept him alive had been Izuru. Through a haze of injury and illness, Izuru had always been there to pull him away from the precipice of death. It’s disingenuous to place hope in anything at this point, but he still hopes that he can return the favor.(Or, the three times Izuru saves Nagito, and the one time Nagito saves him)
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 18
Kudos: 166





	1. We Found Two Dead Swans and Filled their Bodies with Flowers

Nagito’s back arches against the stainless steel operating table he’d been strapped to, screaming so loud that he was almost certain he was tearing up his vocal chords. He coughs and bites his lip as hard as he could, trying to suppress his screeching. He hears Junko laughing above him, dragging the blade of a very sharp knife across his sternum. 

“What’s wrong, Nagito-chan? Don’t tell me you’re getting bored of this already. That would be no fun at all.” 

She coos in a mocking, sing-song voice, her eyes bright with malice and her grin Cheshire. He grimaces, partially from the pain, and partially because he hates her using his given name like that, as if she has any right to. He doesn’t want to risk inciting her rage by replying, so he shoots her a defiant glare and says nothing. 

“The silent treatment, huh?”

She murmurs darkly, grabbing his face and squeezing until his tongue lolls out, digging her red manicured nails into his skin. She braces the edge of the blade to his tongue, drawing a little bit of blood.

“Cat got your tongue? That’s a shame. It’s not like you were using that mouth of yours to say anything particularly important. You won’t mind if I take it, right?”

She giggles manically, holding his tongue with one hand and slicing into it with the other. Blood fills his mouth and he finds himself retching, limbs thrashing against his restraints involuntarily. He supposes that it’s a somewhat expectable punishment, considering what he’d done. When Junko had found out that he’d been trying to sway the other remnants back to the side of hope, she’d been incredibly angry. He was honestly a little shocked that she didn’t kill him on the spot. But Junko usually wasn’t the type to just kill people. She’d toy with them, psychologically torment them; really drag things out before she got it over with. He also supposes that she’d probably keep him alive for a while longer, assuming that he didn’t drown in his own blood or die of blood loss. 

“Aww, you poor little thing.” 

She purrs, sounding way too satisfied with herself. Nagito hadn’t even noticed that he’d begun crying at some point, but once she pats his cheek and draws attention to it, he bitterly realizes that his eyes were overflowing with tears. Suddenly, she pulls the knife away, despite the fact that his tongue was still intact, just bleeding heavily. 

“Did you really think I was going to cut your tongue out? Don’t be silly, Nagi-chan! Your delusional ramblings are a wonderful source of entertainment, I wouldn’t want to deprive myself of something like that.”

She hums contentedly, watching as he chokes and heaves, spitting a mouthful of blood onto himself. She finds his writhing movements and gagging noises terribly amusing, and leans in a little closer to get a better view as he struggles desperately not to drown in his own blood. His thin, malnourished frame is wracked by a tremulous sob, and he feels a few more tears run down his face and into his ears. 

“It’s such a wonderful treat to see you cry. You act like you’re so tough, like you’re numb to it, but you’ve always been so susceptible to physical pain. It’s a bit strange to me, though. I always thought you got off on it, but here you are, blubbering like a baby.” 

She transitions from a sickeningly sweet tone into a sneer almost seamlessly, and he isn’t sure what he hates more. He hates that mocking softness, the chiding lilt in the uptick of each word. He hates her bare faced cruelty, and the despair that it brings. He hates her with every fiber of his being, despite his acute awareness that he really isn’t any better. His hysteria and sickness parallels her own, as she had warped all of the remnants to reflect her twisted image. They’re all just worthless harbingers of despair, hollow vessels filled with nothing but rot and decay. He doesn’t understand how it’s even possible that he’s retained any tiny fragment of hope, because he has allowed himself to become despair, but he knows it still exists. He wouldn’t hate himself so much for contributing to such a destitute future if there wasn’t any goodness left within him. 

He feels her hand slap against his face, and it snaps him back to reality. He blinks a few times, his bleary vision focusing on her blood stained face. He can see her white teeth glinting in the darkness as she presses even closer to him, bracing both hands onto his shoulders. 

“Thought you were passing out on me, Nagi. Wouldn’t want that happening! We’re only just getting started.” 

She chimes, to which he spits a glob of blood tinged saliva onto her face. She wipes it off, her smile still unfaltering. 

“Feisty today, aren’t we?” 

She croons, running her hand along the curve of his jawline almost affectionately. He hates that no matter what he does, she enjoys torturing him. His resistance gives her some kind of a sick thrill; it’s written all over the contentiously erotic expression that plays across her face. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of yielding and resigning himself to her torment, but she loves him just as much when he’s obstinate and vitriolic as she does when he allows himself to be pliable and submissive. She loves them all in a perverse sort of way; she takes more pleasure in tormenting and controlling them than she does anybody else. 

“I’m glad you can get something out of this, Nagi-chan. Maybe you do like pain after all! Well, in that case, sit back and enjoy it. You’re going to be here for a while, so maybe it’s for the better.”

“N-no...”

He wheezes, despite knowing it’s pointless to try and defend his dignity or change her mind. He doesn’t hate pain, under most circumstances, but when she looks at him with that glint in her eye and giggles to herself when he writhes in agony, he despises it. Pain is a comfort, because it’s familiar to him, but there’s no familiarity in the way she’s touching him; satiating her own sadism and using him as a means to contribute to despair. 

“No? Whatever gave you the impression that you had a say?”

She runs her hand over the concave of his stomach, fingers tracing over the bumps of his ribs in a manner that borders on affectionate. It makes him feel sick. 

“You may have a disgusting and sickly body, but you could always do with a few more scars, hm? Just as a reminder. So that every time you look at your reflection in the mirror, you’ll see me, and feel me. It’s almost like we’ll become one. Isn’t that wonderful, Nagi? Knowing that the despair you hate so much will always be a part of you?” 

She slashes into his chest and opens up a massive gash, and he clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut tightly, trying to force himself not to scream when she pushes the blade deeper. He gasps when she pulls the knife out, and feels himself heaving up a little more blood. His throat is burning, and when his opens his eyes again, his vision is entirely obscured by tears. 

“It’s so pathetic, the way you fight against the despair within yourself. You know just as well as any of us that despair is intrinsically tied into human nature. It’s amusing as all hell, to watch you cling onto your idiotic notions of hope. It’s like a leech trying to latch itself onto a shriveled up skeleton. It just doesn’t work! But it’s ridiculously fucking funny to watch you suffer, so I won’t try to use any other brainwashing tactics to bring you over to the side of despair completely. It’s a lot more fun to break it down with brute force.”

She makes a small incision over his heart, feeling his thundering heartbeat reverberate through the cold steel of the blade. He tenses as she drags the knife downward, his labored breathing suspending for a brief moment. 

“Still... It would be a massive pain in my ass if you offed yourself, y’know? I mean, it would be almost poetic, if that was the final cherry on top of the shit show that’s been your life. Blowing your brains out after leading such a miserable, pointless existence, and failing to achieve all you thought you were worth in the world? That’s SO ridiculously despairing, it makes me kinda wet and drippy down there!”

She runs a blood stained hand through his hair in a way that seems half-amicable, ruffling it as her face scrunches into a contemptuous smile. 

“But hey, chin up, Nagi-chan! Whenever you do end up killing yourself, we’ll throw your body in a river or a stream! Your rotting corpse will be a kind of stepping stone that way. Doesn’t that make you happy?” 

She stabs the knife into his abdomen to punctuate the word ‘happy,’ causing him to whimper and grit his teeth. 

“Jeez, you can be so ungrateful sometimes, Nagi. We could just toss you outside like the vermin you are, and leave your body to face the elements. You sure are lucky that you’ve got somebody like me looking out for you, huh?”

She cackles at her own little joke, twisting the knife a little bit before yanking it out. He feels blood spurting out, which probably means she hit an artery. The rest of the blood flow had been warm and sluggish against his skin, but this felt like it was gushing out of him. He distantly wonders if she’ll let him bleed out, before gathering his determination and gazing up at her with a scornful expression. She smears the blood across his chest almost tenderly, with a feigned contemplative look on her smug face. 

“Or maybe... you don’t want to die? It’s almost laughable to consider such a thing, but I suppose it is a possibility. Have you magically regained your will to live, all for the sake of spiting me?” 

She slowly starts pressing the point of the blade into his stomach, watching as he winces with pain, with a glimmer in her eyes and a lull in her voice that borders on adoring. He loathes it; he wishes she would just drop dead. 

“Or... perhaps you never wanted to die at all. Sure, you fucking hate yourself, and I don’t blame you, but maybe that “stepping stone” bullshit was just a bluff. Consciously or unconsciously, some part of you doesn’t want to sacrifice yourself for your ideals. I mean, your “hope” must have been pretty weak, considering that I was able to pull you down to my level so easily.” 

Once the knife is embedded a few inches into his torso, she starts to slowly trail it downwards, opening a massive slit across his pale skin. 

“I’m sure that you know better than anybody else how much you deserve to die. How worthless and disgusting you are. The vast majority of what you ramble on about is deranged nonsense, but you are certainly right about your pitiful lack of worth. Maybe there’s some solace in that for you! But I wonder, if I were to cut deep enough to breach your vital organs, would you beg to die? Or would you beg to live?” 

She ponders aloud, jamming the knife in further and pulling apart the wound with her hands. He screeches and thrashes his head about, unable to contain his noises any longer. He gurgles as he feels more blood well up in his throat and fill his mouth, and gives a hacking cough in an ineffectual attempt to dispel it. His breaths are all excruciatingly painful when she finally tears the knife out, and he’s pretty sure that he’s hyperventilating. 

“Well? Won’t you humor me, Nagi?” 

He manages a strangled noise, then a hiss of air through clenched teeth. Even if she really does kill him, he doesn’t want to play into her narrative; to give her what she wants. He can’t think of a worse way to die, but he’s all but accepted at this point that he’s either going to die by her hand, or his own. 

“Gah! Rude!”

She exclaims, burying a hand into the open wound and relishing in the ensuing wail. The pain is absolutely excruciating, so despite his shame, a dials back the stubbornness a bit. 

“Pl-ple-please...”

He splutters, his voice raw and only scarcely coherent. 

“Please what, Nagi? I’m not entirely heartless, maybe I’ll do what you want me to... But I’ll keep dragging this out until you tell me! Do you want me to let you live, or do you want me to-“

“Enoshima.”

Junko whips her head around, turning to face the source of the monotone voice. Her face lights up as soon as she sees Izuru, waving at him and proffering a chipper smile. 

“Kamukura, darling! What brings you here, gorgeous?” 

Izuru takes a few steps further, his dress shoes clicking against the tile floor of the room they were in. His expression was flat and unreadable as always, but she knew that he wouldn’t interrupt unless he had a reason. 

“You’re killing him.” 

He announces blankly, narrowing his crimson red eyes. 

“Aww, don’t be a buzzkill! I wasn’t actually gonna kill him, I was just messing with him. You’re spoiling all the fun.”

She pouts, crossing her arms disapprovingly and glancing down at the floor almost sheepishly. 

“At the rate you were going at, you would have caused permanent organ damage. Even if it wasn’t your intention, the probability of that killing him would be approximately 97.8 percent.” 

He drones, his watchful eye following her as she set the knife down, shoulders sagging. 

“You’re so lame sometimes. Don’t be such a fuckin’ know-it-all! It makes you boring, wayyy more boring than you already are. You don’t want that, right?”

She flashes him a wily grin, despite being certain that her attempt to get under his skin would be ineffectual. He doesn’t even blink, as she’d predicted, and her smile falters. She sighs and starts heading out of the room, shaking her head as she goes. 

“I trust you’ll take care of the mess, yeah? If you’re so smart, then make yourself useful and clean shit up.” 

Izuru waits for the sound of her heels echoing down the hall to fade away, and then quickly steps closer to Nagito. 

He presses his palm flat against his blood soaked forehead, gauging for any abnormalities with his temperature. He then grips his wrist and checks his pulse, noting how Nagito shudders at the contact. His lashes flutter and his glazed eyes focus in on the noir-haired man, and despite being in incredible amounts of pain, he stretches a dazed smile up at him. 

“Th-tha-ank y-“ 

He tries to stutter out, but Izuru silences him by pressing a finger against his lips. 

“You’re still conscious? Relax.” 

He murmurs, undoing the straps holding his wrists down and heading to the corner of the room to get bandages and other medical supplies from a first aid kit. He whines as soon as Izuru steps away from him, a few more tears involuntarily gliding down his cheeks. As soon as he returns, Nagito’s eyes light up, and he shakily reaches towards him before his strength fails and his arm flops across his chest. 

“Komaeda, please let yourself rest. You shouldn’t expend any more of your energy.”

Izuru advises, dressing the wounds that were still bleeding with gauze and applying pressure in order to stop the heavy blood flow.

“K-Kamu-“

Nagito is cut off by more blood bubbling up in his mouth, and Izuru watches with a sense of muted dismay as it rolls down his chin. He cautiously wipes at the blood, and lets his hand linger on his cheek. He cradles his face with aching tenderness, and Nagito can’t help but sigh blissfully and lean into the touch. 

“Please, just close your eyes and allow yourself to drift off. I’m going to take care of you. You’ll be okay.” 

He strokes Nagito’s cheek cautiously, and even through the haze of the pain, the white haired man was overwhelmed with a sensation of unfettered euphoria. He wishes that he could keep himself awake just a little longer, so he can throw his arms around Izuru’s shoulders and cry into his neck. It would be impudent if him, but he knows that Izuru’s intervention must be his good luck returning to pay him back tenfold for the torment he’d suffered at Junko’s hand. He wanted to savor every moment of Izuru’s attention, but he could already feel his consciousness beginning to fade. His sight closes in on the image of Izuru delicately tending to his wounds with a look of intense focus on his face. He’s certain that it’s one of the most intrinsically perfect things he’s ever seen, and he does his best to burn the memory into his brain as he finally passes out. 

... 

He blinks himself out of a dreamless sleep hours later, exhaustion blurring his vision as he tries to sit up. He’s affronted by an inordinate amount of pain the second he tries to move, and he winces and clenches his teeth. 

“I see you’re awake. Try not to move too much, please. It could exacerbate your injuries.” 

Izuru drones, walking towards the bed that he was resting on. He quickly comes to the realization that he was laying on Izuru’s bed, and he feels his face start to flush. Izuru sits on the edge of the bed, the grey silk sheets creasing as he leans closer to Nagito. 

“Thank you so much...” 

Nagito rasps quietly, every word that leaves his mouth hurting his throat. Izuru picks up a glass of water from his nightstand, and tilts it towards Nagito’s lips. 

“Drink. It’ll help you feel better.” 

Izuru murmurs, placing a hand behind his neck and helping him drink the liquid. Nagito hums contentedly and purses his lips, drinking the water in small sips until he’s satisfied. 

“I really can’t thank you enough. You’re wonderful.”

Nagito whispers as soon as Izuru pulls the cup away, leaning his head against his pillow and puffing out a dreamy sigh. Izuru’s demeanor shifts slightly at the compliment, but Nagito isn’t really sure why. He’s just pointing out the obvious. 

“I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, Kamukura-kun. I should probably get out of your hair. I’ll head back to my own room and-“

“No. You’re staying here. I’m going to keep an eye on you until you’re well enough to walk again.” 

Izuru cuts him off, folding his arms across his chest. Nagito smiles brightly up at him, shifting slightly in order to slide under the covers. His body aches as he does so, but it’s worth it to be enveloped in Izuru’s blankets. 

“You’re so endlessly kind, Kamukura-kun. I’m so grateful that you’d extend such unwarranted attention to lowly scum such as myself.” 

Nagito croons, nuzzling his head into the pillow. 

“Don’t start with that. It’s simply safer like this. Considering that you’re injured, I don’t want Tsumiki to get her hands on you.” 

Izuru retorts, pressing his hand against Nagito’s forehead to check his temperature once again. Nagito gasps audibly at this, leaning his head forward and nudging it against Izuru’s hand as he tries to pull away. Izuru allows his hand to linger for a moment longer, before stepping away to rummage through one of his drawers. 

“Ahh, right. What should I do for the time being, then?” 

Nagito asks gingerly. Izuru doesn’t look up as he replies to the question, but his voice is still loud and clear. 

“Just relax. I’ll be checking on your wounds periodically, changing the bandages, and seeing how your stitches are healing. Let me know if you need any painkillers. I administered a small dosage while you were unconscious, but the effects will likely fade soon. If you’re hungry or thirsty, just tell me. I’ll take care of everything.” 

Izuru retrieves several bottles of pills from the drawer, and places them on the nightstand. 

“Stitches?“ 

Nagito echoes, sliding a hand under his shirt to trace his fingers over the bandages. 

“Several of your injuries were deep enough to require them. I took the supplies from Tsumiki and was able to close the wounds.” 

Izuru responds, his voice a soothing, even monotone. Nagito tries to turn his body to get a better look at Izuru, but immediately flinches and whimpers in agony. It was humiliating that such a simple movement hurt so badly. He was ashamed of forcing Izuru to take care of him like this, but he supposed it was in his pathetic nature. 

“Are you alright? Do you want any painkillers?” 

Izuru inquires, his expression softening as he reaches for one of the pill bottles. 

“N-no! I’m fine! I feel great, you don’t have to waste any effort on me.” 

Nagito blurts, trying not to raise his voice too much. Izuru’s lips curl into a slightly detectable frown, and he opens the bottle of pills anyways. 

“Don’t lie to me. There’s no reason to put yourself through pain unnecessarily. I don’t want to see you hurting.” 

Nagito feels his chest tighten at those words, and his eyes start to water involuntarily. He blinks rapidly to clear the threat of tears, but still sniffles a little bit. 

“Ah. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be a burden on you. I’m sure you have better things to do than put up with my petty problems. You shouldn’t even have to be reminded of my worthless existence.” 

Nagito breathes, doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. Izuru’s gaze shifts to the floor, and he says nothing. 

“Why did you save me, anyways? Why did you bother?” 

Nagito asks, his voice wavering with uncertainty despite his best efforts. 

“There was no point in letting you die a meaningless death at her hands.”

Izuru responds simply, lifting the glass of water along with a palmful of white pills. Nagito obediently opens his mouth and swallows the pills down as Izuru feeds him the water, humming contentedly as Izuru grips his chin and tilts his head back. Once he’s finished, Izuru sets the glass aside, and brushes a few sweaty wisps of white hair away from his forehead. 

“My entire existence is meaningless, Kamukura-kun. I’m just a dead weight, and I’m probably going to die soon either way. It’s almost astounding that a parasite like me was able to keep myself alive this long.” 

Nagito mumbles, his vision bleary and shifting as he desperately tries not to cry. Izuru cautiously sits at his bedside; slow and silent like a shadow manifested into reality, and moving delicately in order to avoid jostling him. 

“So you’re telling me you’ve given up hope?”

Izuru asks, his expression as unreadable as always. 

“No, never!” 

“Then keep fighting.” 

Nagito blinks at his words, gawking up at him with a vacant expression. Izuru folds his arms across his chest and sighs. 

“When she asked you if you wanted to live, or if you wanted to die… what would you have told her?”

Izuru questions, his tone of voice unwavering and severe. Nagito’s eyes trail to the ground and he hunches his shoulders, curling into himself and being uncharacteristically silent. This nonanswer is enough for Izuru to be able to fill in the blanks himself. 

“You’re the only person here who hasn’t compromised your ideals for her sake, at least to the extent that she wants you to. You have a shred of optimism left within you that you haven’t let her crush under her heel. It's a reckless endeavor, but it’s interesting. More interesting than her and her meager despair. So don’t forfeit your life just yet.” 

Izuru declares, and Nagito can’t hold back the flood of tears that ensues, his entire body wracked by heaving sobs that have absolutely nothing to do with the pain. 

“I-I’m sorry, Kamukura-kun, I c-can’t-I don’t d-deserve-“

“Enough of that. This isn’t a matter of what you deserve. It’s simply a matter of what I have to give, and whether or not you’ll take it.”

Izuru muses, raising an eyebrow as Nagito hiccups loudly and starts blindly grasping for his arm, despite his face scrunching up in pain from the slight movement. He presses the back of Izuru’s wrist against his cheek and bawls loudly for several moments, all while Izuru watches with an impassive expression. He wraps both arms around Izuru’s limb and clings to it, whimpering incomprehensible apologies as his tears soak into Izuru’s sleeve. 

“Why are you still crying?”

Izuru asks after several moments, uncertainty clouding his piercing crimson gaze. 

“I d-don’t know...” 

He rasps, taking Izuru’s hand and pushing it against his face, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm. 

“I’m sorry for being so impudent. I wish I wasn’t like this. I completely understand if you hate me... I just need... I n-need to feel something good, something that isn’t just pain. And you’re... the only good thing that’s left.

He clasps both of his hands over Izuru’s and sighs, lashes fluttering as he feels Izuru wipe a few tears away with a swipe of his thumb. 

“I don’t know why you see me as better than any of the others.”

He replies simply, making no move to pull his hand back as Nagito leans his entire head against his palm and closes his eyes. 

“It’s because... you’re so much more than her and her revolting despair. You’re worth so much more than what she’s tried to mold you into. Me and the others, we have nothing left. We’re just her playthings now. The only reason I’m still alive is because she finds my suffering amusing. But you... you’re everything. You can do anything. You’re perfect and I just-just... need that reminder that there are still good things in the world, in order to keep going.” 

He rambles, his eyes glassy and his expression reverent. 

“I see... you ascribe value to me because you think my existence suits your ideals, somehow. My mind being an amalgamation of artificial talent doesn’t make me into the hope you so desperately seek. Regarding me as a figure of worship will only twist your broken ideology further. Hope and despair are meaningless to me. Putting me on a pedestal is unnecessary.” 

Nagito lifts his head off of the pillow as he says this, just long enough to shake his head before collapsing once again. 

“I... don’t want to make you into anything. I’m disgusting and pathetic, but I don’t just worship you as a means to sustain my belief in hope. You mean more than just your talents, and the hope they embody, at least to me... I find comfort in your existence. I find solace in the fact that you haven’t crumbled under the onslaught of misery the world has been drowned in. You’re no shining paragon of hope, but I can still feel that you’re still intrinsically hopeful, and you’re so perfect. I just need to feel you, and remind myself that you exist, and I know everything will be... okay...”

Nagito’s words start to slow down as he lays his head completely against Izuru’s hand, his eyes fluttering closed again and his breathing starting to even out. 

“Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s fate. Or maybe I’m just deluded. But I know that there’s so much more to you than just man-made talent, and endless boredom. You make me so happy, I believe in that feeling...”

He trails off, snuffling and wheezing slightly as he drifts into an otherwise peaceful sleep. Izuru has no intention of going to sleep himself or moving, so he allows his hand to remain there, and simply observes the minute changes in Nagito’s facial expression as he rests there. Izuru could surmise the emotions that the white haired man was grappling with by listening to him ramble, which was somewhat bizarre. All of his feelings, if he could even call them that, were hazy and indistinct, but he could comprehend clinging to something else out of reflex, and he could understand driving himself beyond the path of his own understanding out of instinct. That was probably what pushed him towards saving Nagito’s life in the first place. His luck was an enigma, and although it wasn’t quite riveting, it was certainly better than absolute monotony. 

“You certainly are strange, Komaeda Nagito...”

He breathes, not bothering to wonder why he’d decided to say that to somebody who couldn’t hear him. The answer would reveal himself in due time. He’d just have to keep Nagito alive, and keep chasing that ephemeral sensation.


	2. All the Lonely Nights in your Life

Nagito had never wanted to become despair, to stray so far from his ideals. He’d always known himself to be a failure, but he’d hoped that when he’d started to lose himself within an icy coil of despair and misery, he’d be able to pull himself back up to the surface. He’d kicked and thrashed enough to avoid sinking endlessly, but he didn’t have the strength to drag himself ashore, cough the water out of his lungs, and keep living for the sake of something worth living for. He was torn between two drastically different ideologies, and he loathed himself for not being able to dedicate himself in his entirety to the pursuit of hope. Every time he felt as though he might be able to overcome the onslaught of despair that plagued the world, something horrible would happen and send him spiraling, and he’d be right back where he started. He was certain that his luck cycle was responsible for these extreme emotional highs and lows, and the predictability of it frustrated him to no end.

He felt like he was condemned to play the role of Sisyphus, pushing that metaphorical boulder up the hill towards the horizon, only to have it crash down on him every time. He almost wishes that it would pin him down and crush him to death, but he understands that he won’t be able to die until his luck allows him to, so he figures it’s best not to tempt fate. Regardless, that desire to break free gnaws at him constantly, and it intensifies when he sees the other remnants. He empathizes with them, and he knows that they all deserve a chance at healing and atonement, even if he doesn’t. Those instincts are what guide him when he stumbles across Mikan, watching the killing game at Hope’s Peak Academy being broadcasted on a cracked television screen jutting out of a dilapidated wall. 

She’s been staring at it, completely unmoving, for at least five minutes now; slack-jawed and glassy eyed. Nagito feels his heart twist within his chest as she reaches to caress the screen, and he decides that he’ll make an attempt to confront her. He cautiously steps towards her, only slowing his pace slightly when he notices that she’s carrying a crowbar. She doesn’t seem to notice as he approaches, her glazed eyes still fixed unwaveringly on the television as images of an execution flicker across the screen. 

“Tsumiki-san.”

He whispers, to which she flinches violently and whips around to face him. The fear on her face makes his stomach drop, and he still can’t help but pity her even as her expression twists into a scowl. 

“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

She hisses, raising her crowbar and posing to go on the offensive. He stifles the instinct to protect his head and cover his face, flashing her a sympathetic smile. 

“You really ought to stop watching that, Tsumiki-san.”

He murmurs, keeping his voice low as he takes a few steps closer to her. 

“This killing game is the work of my beloved, and I want to watch all of this glorious despair unfold until the very end. I’m not going to let you stop me.”

She scoffs, turning her head away and clenching the metal of the crowbar in a tight fist.

“Please Tsumiki-san, this isn’t healthy. This can’t be good for your physical or mental state.” 

Nagito’s hands tremble as he reaches to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrinks away from him, and he drops his arm at his side.

“All I need is my beloved, and nothing else. Once this killing game ends, I’ll get to see her again...”

Nagito frowns visibly at this, gripping at his upper arms and rubbing the fabric of his sweater. 

“Enoshima... doesn’t treat you with any respect or dignity. You deserve better than that.”

Nagito tries, his body tensing when she glares at him with rising hostility. 

“She l-loves me. She’s the only one who’s ever cared about me, and I’ve devoted my everything to her. None of your pointless babble will change that.” 

She bristles, baring her teeth and shifting the crowbar from hand to hand in an attempt to intimidate Nagito. 

“It isn’t love, Tsumiki-san... She’s just using you to achieve her goals. She doesn’t care for you beyond that.” 

Nagito fires back, his tone darker and more frustrated. Mikan laughs harshly at this, pointing the crowbar at him and smiling when he jumps out of reflex. 

“And what would you know about love? Nobody w-would ever love a person as worthless as you. You’re a waste of space, and you don’t even try to make yourself useful like I do. You’re disgusting.”

Her coy smile splits into a twisted grin when she sees how his face scrunches up at her words, and she jabs the crowbar in his direction and giggles when he steals his nerves with a resolute expression on his face. 

“Trying to sound like Enoshima? It really doesn’t suit you. What happened to the kind, nurturing Tsumiki that I used to admire so much?”

Nagito questions, leaning down in order to be at eye level with her. 

“She got walked all over and treated like garbage, so she decided to commit herself to the one person who’d ever given a damn about her. Not that you’d know what that feels like. You’re completely unlovable, and nobody will ever forgive you for your revolting existence like my beloved forgives me. You can go and die in a ditch for all I care!”

She snarls, her violet eyes blazing with absolute hatred as he extends a hand to her. 

“Enoshima walks all over you and treats you like garbage as well. I know that you’re a good person deep down, and you shouldn’t have to tolerate that kind of treatment. So please, try and find that sliver of hope that exists somewhere within you, and abandon her and her despicable cause! You have so much potential to do amazing things, and you shouldn’t waste it on a wretched woman like her.”

The words have barely even left his mouth when he watches her swing her crowbar into his forearm, sending waves of pain coursing through his body. 

“Leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want to hear any of your deranged ramblings.” 

She growls, following his movements with watchful eyes as he cradles his bruised arm against his chest. 

“Then I guess you leave me no choice...”

He sighs, picking up a large chunk of debris from the ground and hurtling it at the television screen with a sad smile on his face. She lets out a primordial screech of rage as the glass shatters and flies everywhere, and immediately starts battering him with the crowbar. He collapses to the floor when the metal cracks against his kneecaps, and all he can do to shield himself from the oncoming damage is ineffectually cross his arms over his face. He curls up into a ball and tries to mentally distance himself from the pain, idly wondering if she’s managed to break any of his bones. He can’t help but feel a little embarrassed by the little cries and whimpers his body gives involuntarily, but when she pulls him up by the collar of his shirt to face her, he stretches a wide smile up at her and lets out a wheezing laugh. 

“If you try to pull any shit like this with me again, I’ll kill you.”

She snarls, and hurtles him towards the remains of the crumbling stone wall. His vision goes white for a few moments, and when he finally blinks himself back to reality, he assumes he must have passed out briefly. He rubs at his head and tries to quell the headache that’s already starting to develop, and regretting it almost instantly when the dizziness gives way to debilitating pain. He comes to the acute awareness that one of his legs is pinned beneath some rubble, and when he fails to pull it free, the dire nature of the situation dawns on him all at once. 

“Just my luck...”

He mumbles to himself, wincing as he jostles the limb and tries to move it; pulling with all his might. He spends several long hours mulling over his choices, but once the sun starts to dip below the horizon, he makes up his mind on the best course of action. Once the night fell, there was a high chance that he’d be found by someone who’d take advantage of his vulnerability and try to force him into human trafficking, or kill him and steal his organs to sell on the black market. Even on the off chance that nobody found him, he’d eventually starve like this, and he didn’t find the idea of dying like that too appealing. 

He still had unfinished business here, so he wouldn’t succumb to the nothingness of death just yet. He fishes through the pockets of his jeans and finds a Bowie knife, with a large enough blade to cut through human skin and bones. He braces it right below his kneecap, readying himself to grit his teeth and cut off the entirety of his lower leg. A whine catches in his throat as it breaks the skin, and he feels tears gathering in his eyes and obscuring his vision. 

Just as he’s about to start pressing it even deeper, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and he yelps in surprise. He tilts his head up to see Izuru leaning over him with an unreadable expression, and he can’t help but flash a genuine, carefree smile up at the intimidating man. 

“Kamukura-kun! It’s so nice to see you!”

He chirps, wiping at the tear marks on his cheeks and waving amicably. 

“What were you about to do?”

Izuru asks softly, even though Nagito can tell from his tone of voice that he already knows. 

“Ah, I was just going to try and free myself from this precarious situation. I wasn’t going to kill myself or anything like that!”

He assures, only to gasp faintly when Izuru snatches the Bowie knife from him. 

“You’re an idiot. If you’d have done that, you would have certainly passed out from the shock of the pain, or from blood loss.”

Izuru then shifts to lift up the large chunk of stone that was trapping his leg in place, tossing it above his head and into the distance with ease. With graceful, fluid movements, he clears out the rest of the rubble and examines his leg, frowning as he notices the way his foot was jutting out at an odd angle. 

“Thank you, Kamukura-kun! You’re so considerate, I can’t believe that you’d waste your strength to help a worthless person such as myself! I’m so-“

“Stop talking.”

Izuru commands, sweeping Nagito up into his arms and carrying him in bridal style. Nagito has a million questions running through his mind, but he elects to ignore them and nuzzle his face against Izuru’s chest and relax into the comforting hold instead. Izuru’s arms feel so warm when they’re wrapped protectively around him like that, and Nagito gives a beatific sigh when the noir haired man squeezes him even closer. He can feel himself starting to slip into unconsciousness, which definitely isn’t a good sign, so Nagito decides to try and spark a conversation despite being told not to speak.

“Where are we going, Kamukura-kun?”

He slurs weakly, his words lacking the clarity and cheerfulness they usually exude. 

“I’m bringing you somewhere safe. I’ll take care of your wounds and ensure that you get something to eat.”

Izuru replies flatly, cradling the lanky man and holding him steady as he navigates his way through some debris. 

“Mmhm... Thank you, Kamukura-kun. You truly are extraordinary.” 

Nagito’s words were absolutely dripping with adoration, and despite his vision being unfocused, he flashes a dreamy, lopsided smile up at Izuru. For some reason he can’t place, Izuru can feel a slight twinge in his belly at these words, but he doesn’t allow it to offset his demeanor. Nestled up against the man he worships, Nagito finds himself in an almost sleep-like state; not quite conscious, but not quite passed out either. He blinks himself back to a state of awareness when he feels himself being laid down, and he looks dazedly up at Izuru. 

“What is this place...?”

He mumbles, squinting his eyes up at Izuru in an attempt to steady his blurry, shifting vision. 

“This place used to be a ramen shop with a residential apartment space on the second floor. I’ve been coming here whenever I need food, or shelter from the elements.”

Izuru replies quietly, placing a hand on Nagito’s forehead to check his temperature. Those fierce crimson eyes inspect the white haired man from head to toe, and Nagito can’t help but bask in the attention. 

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

He questions, watching as Nagito shrinks away from his attempt at eye contact. 

“It’s been a day or two, at the very least.”

He responds gingerly, trying to sound nonchalant about it and failing quite miserably. 

“The kitchen is right over there, in the other room. I’ll make you something to eat. I can make any type of ramen you’d like, provided that this place has the right ingredients.”

Izuru offers, to which Nagito gives a hearty, carefree laugh. 

“You’re so kind, Kamukura-kun! You don’t have to do something like that, I’m hardly deserving of-“

“I’m still going to make you something regardless. You aren’t going to starve on my watch. Wait here, and I’ll be back when your food is ready.” 

Izuru interrupts, and Nagito watches how his cascades of black hair fan out behind him as he walks away. Once he’s completely out of sight, Nagito surveys his surroundings as well as he can without sitting up or moving too much, because he was still incredibly lightheaded and in a lot of pain. It seemed like Izuru had dragged a couch from the lobby into the middle of the restaurant, because most of the booths were completely destroyed. The walls were cracked and the windows were boarded up, but the place didn’t seem to be in danger of collapsing, which was a slight relief. If he listens close enough, he can listen to the sound of the stove being turned on in the other room, and he listens to the quiet sound of Izuru shifting around and the fire crackling in order to distract himself from the pain. 

Once he sees Izuru return from the other room with the bowl of ramen, he tries and fails to pull himself into a sitting position, and Izuru has to set the food aside and help him. It makes him feel useless, but the sensation of Izuru’s hands on him balances out any kind of negative feeling. Izuru swiftly retrieves the bowl of ramen, and presses a spoonful of the broth against his lips. 

“Ah, Kamukura-kun is feeding me? I really am lucky...”

He murmurs, swallowing down the spoonful and humming contentedly. The taste is utterly divine, and Nagito can’t help but wonder how many different Ultimates contributed towards this amazing cooking ability that Izuru now possessed. 

“Let me know if it’s too much for you to eat. I did make a lot...”

Izuru requests, and Nagito nods obediently, determined to eat as much of it as he can manage. Although it starts to become a struggle by the end, he swallows down every bite, and he almost wishes he could have a second helping if it meant that Izuru would lavish him with even more attention. 

“Thank you so much for the meal, Kamukura-kun. You’re so generous and thoughtful... I’m eternally indebted to you.”

Izuru chooses not to respond to his expression of gratitude, instead electing to sweep him into his arms and carry him up the stairs. The ebony haired man lays him down on a bare mattress, and then carefully rolls up the leg of Nagito’s jeans to inspect his injury. 

“Mmhm... Your ankle is definitely broken. Fortunately, there is a first aid kit here, so I will be able to treat it.”

Izuru leaves the room momentarily, and returns with the first aid kit in hand, rapidly setting his leg into place and creating a makeshift cast. With deft, nimble movements, he then places a bandage on the shallow gash that Nagito had left on his own leg, and steps back to make certain there are no other wounds that he’s missed. 

“There. Try to move it as little as you can. You’ll need a couple of days of bed rest, and then you should be able to walk again, albeit cautiously.”

Izuru informs, snapping the first aid kit shut and pushing it into the corner of the room. 

“Will you be looking after me the whole time?”

Nagito questions, a look of blatant shock and disbelief painted across his pale, gaunt face. Izuru nods in lieu of an answer, and Nagito gives a guilty wince and looks away. 

“I see... I’m sorry to pose such a burden to you. I don’t understand why you keep inconveniencing yourself in order to save somebody as pathetic as me.” 

Izuru isn’t sure why, but when these words leave Nagito’s mouth, he feels compelled to grab Nagito’s hand and squeeze it tightly. Perhaps it was the look of resigned misery in his eyes, or the empty, defeated tone of his voice. Something about it rubbed him the wrong way. 

“I don’t quite know how to quantify it myself. Although I am aware that I’ve previously expressed that you ought to act within the best interest of your own survival, when I saw you bracing that knife to your leg, I felt... uneasy.”

He rubs his thumb over the knuckles of Nagito’s hand as he tries to put his bizarre feelings into words, occasionally glancing over at Nagito to take a peek at his intense, owl-eyed expression. 

“The thought of you hurting yourself made me uncomfortable. The thought of you being in any pain at all... unsettles me. I don’t like it. I don’t have much of a grasp on my own emotions, but I can tell that much.”

It seems to take Nagito a few moments to fully comprehend these words, and once they finally settle over his mind, Nagito takes Izuru’s clenched hand and nuzzles it against his cheek. 

“I could never fully express how happy it makes me to hear that... I apologize in advance if I start bawling my eyes out, or if I faint. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

He whimpers, his tired grey eyes shining with tears and his voice thick with emotion. He sniffles and smiles up at Izuru, who looks somewhat ruffled at Nagito’s sudden shift in mood. 

“I don’t want you to cry...”

Nagito wipes at his eyes as soon as he says this, forcing back more tears and stretching a lopsided grin up at Izuru. 

“These are happy tears, don’t worry! I get overwhelmed with emotion easily, and sometimes I can’t help but cry.” 

He assures, blinking innocuously as Izuru lowers himself so that they’ll be at eye level. 

“I wish I understood what that felt like. It might sound strange to you, but in some ways... I envy you, Komaeda.” 

Izuru admits, watching as Nagito’s facial expression shifts from blissful and content to utterly bewildered. 

“How could you possibly envy a worthless peon such as myself? You’re perfect, and anything that I have that you don’t, I’m sure you could easily obtain it for yourself!” 

Nagito questions, so dumbfounded by Izuru’s statement that he jolts upright, despite still being in a lot of pain. 

“I wish I could still feel emotions in the same intervals that you do. I don’t even remember what it’s like... Many of those memories were taken from me.” 

Izuru murmurs softly, letting out an involuntary hum as Nagito laces their fingers together and grips his hand tightly. 

“It’s awful that they did that to you, Kamukura-kun... I am sorry, although I still disagree with you to a certain extent. My intense emotions are more of a curse than a blessing.”

Nagito pulls Izuru’s hand into his lap and flashes him a wistful smile while he continues to speak, a painful sort of nostalgia clouding his gaze as he explains himself. 

“I experience emotional highs and lows in extreme intervals, and although the high points are so wonderful that they border on bliss, the low points are... excruciatingly painful. I would never wish that kind of agony on anyone, let alone somebody as wonderful as you.” 

Nagito leans back against the headboard with a quivering sigh, his lips still quirking upwards despite the look of passive misery in his stormy grey eyes. 

“So are you telling me that you’d prefer to experience the same nothingness that the Kamukura Project has compelled me to endure?”

Izuru asks, a curious lilt to his voice as he cocks his head to the side and gazes at Nagito’s exhausted expression. 

“I would be lying if I said that there haven’t been times where I’ve wished to feel nothing at all. I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, at least not in an overt sense. But I don’t think I’d be able to walk the same path as you. For a worthless person like me, trying to numb myself to all the pain is simply an act of selfishness. I deserve it, after all.”

Nagito sighs dejectedly, but still manages to crack a smile when Izuru presses his other hand against the crown of Nagito’s head and starts caressing his locks of soft white hair. 

“I don’t understand why you think your existence isn’t worth anything. Your value shouldn’t be any different than any other person out there. It’s strange that you truly believe that you are deserving of pain.” 

Izuru’s nimble fingers massage his scalp and toy with his white wisps of hair as he drones on, and Nagito just closes his eyes and relaxes into the soothing touch. He knows that his luck is likely going to make him suffer for the inordinate amount of happiness he’s experiencing in Izuru’s presence, but he figures it would be a waste to not allow himself to enjoy it. 

“I suppose it is best not to dwell on such things. You should try to rest. If you need anything at all, I will provide it for you.”

The idea of Izuru being at Nagito’s beck and call doesn’t sit right with him for some reason, but he nods sheepishly despite the discomfort settling in his stomach at the sound of his words. He lays there with his eyes scrunched shut, shivering against the bare mattress and trying to focus on the warmth of Izuru’s palm against his hand. They rest in silence for a few tense moments, until Izuru rises from his seated position and shucks off his jacket. He tugs at the knot on his tie until it comes loose, and then carefully maneuvers next to Nagito on the bed in order to avoid disturbing him. 

“You’re cold...”

Izuru breathes in lieu of an explanation, and carefully wraps his arms around Nagito’s shaking form and pulls him close. Despite the taste of his pulse in his throat at the suddenness of this advance, Nagito can’t help but feel safe and protected with Izuru’s strong arms embracing him like that. His ebony black hair is draped over Nagito’s frail body like a blanket, and he can even detect the faint scent of the cologne that Izuru wears due to his close proximity. Nagito knows that this hug is purely utilitarian, and that Izuru would only ever touch a lowly being like him for the sake of maintaining body heat, but something about the way the noir haired man was clinging to him felt unmistakably fond. Perhaps he was just deluding himself, yearning for affection from Izuru so desperately that he was interpreting something that simply wasn’t there, but the warmth and the closeness felt so kind. Izuru seems to doze off before he does, and when he can hear his breathing evening out, he’s struck with the conflicting realization that Izuru trusts him enough to let his guard down like this; secure enough in his revolting presence to sleep so peacefully holding onto him. As he begins to drift off, he’s affronted by the unsurprising, but still disconcerting realization that he’s fallen in love with Izuru. He’s certain that Izuru can sense his infatuation, but he can never tell him the true extent of his affections, for the sake of his own safety. Even if he knew that Izuru was strong enough to overcome any danger that his luck might yield, he didn’t want to risk even the slightest chance of hurting him. He certainly doesn’t deserve any type of reciprocation from somebody as intrinsically perfect as Izuru, and he lets that thought comfort him as he slips into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to update my Komahina fic instead of this but I guess I have Kamukoma brainrot now because I wouldn’t even let myself get started on the next chapter for “Learning to Warm Cold Hands” until I put this out. I’m sorry for having such a sporadic updating schedule, I have so much unfinished stuff that I need to finish up and/or edit. I hope you all enjoy this, regardless. The next chapter is going to be absolutely BRUTAL so buckle up.


	3. I Blew on a Dandelion and the Whole World Disappeared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I’d put a TW for this part of the story here, just so people are warned about the content of this chapter. This chapter is pretty graphic and violent, and specifically involves details of Nagito severing his own arm. If that is triggering for you, I’d recommend proceeding with caution. Stay safe everyone, your mental health is important!

Nagito remembers when he’d heard the news that had set his fragile mind spinning apart; the reality he’d based the last several years of his life upon bursting at the seams. He could recall it in visceral, uncomfortable detail, which was beyond bizarre to him, especially considering how thoroughly the frontal lobe of his brain had surely rotted by now. It had been so long since he’d received any kind of medical treatment, and it was depressingly unsurprising when his memory began to dilapidate, making each day that went by seem so hazy and tenuous once it managed to stretch past him. When he’d learned the horrific truth, he should have forgotten about it within a few hours or days. And even if he couldn’t successfully suppress that knowledge, it should have been easy to chalk it all up to a quirk of his disintegrating brain, and pretend like the despair that was tethering his soul to his body was still there. It should have been so easy to settle back into that empty emotional state, warm and nauseating, but the sensation of dread settling over his stomach once he’d heard it had been all too real. 

Junko Enoshima was dead. 

There had been small crowds of ragtag survivors, celebrating on the ruined streets of doomed cities, raising their open, dirty palms to the skies above and cheering until they screamed their throats raw. He’d approached a small group of people and asked what the commotion was all about, because he was curious to see so many individuals raising such a raucous call up to the heavens, and seemingly out of hope rather than despair. They’d welcomed him warmly and excitedly, surely not recognizing him as a remnant of despair and a danger to all of their lives, perhaps deterred by his mud streaked hair and gaunt, ashen face. 

“Forgive me for intruding, but why on earth are you all making such a din?” 

He’d questioned, his voice cracking from lack of use, raspy and quiet in a way he hoped wouldn’t disturb them. They were still smiling so widely and genuinely as he pressed closer, one of them even clapping a hand against his shoulder and not recoiling at the dried blood that was caked onto his clothes in the slightest. He supposed that they didn’t realize the blood wasn’t his. 

“Haven’t you heard? We’re saved!”

Nagito had raised an eyebrow at this, taking a few paces closer despite his aversion to all of the noise. It was enough to pique his curiosity; seeing such utter enthrallment despite the totality of the destruction around them. 

“Saved? How so?”

He had asked, tilting his head to the side and gawking at them. He should have savored those last few moments of relative mental peace. There was no way he could have braced himself; nothing that would have made processing the cruelty of his reality any less difficult. 

“The Ultimate Despair was defeated! She died! Junko Enoshima is finally gone!”

And with those measly few words, Nagito could feel the earth being swept up from under his feet, seemingly falling forever in an endless chasm of hopelessness and disbelief. He found himself wondering why none of the other remnants had attempted to contact him to inform him about this, but he supposed that they didn’t care enough to let him know, or rather, they were so utterly ensconced in an emotion resembling grief that he simply wasn’t a priority. His feet carried him with all the way to Hope’s Peak Academy with a sense of fatalistic purpose, his thoughts on a sickening loop as he trudged mindlessly over the barren landscape. He had to prove to himself that it was real, that this wasn’t just a clear sign of his mind caving in on itself with absolute finality. Maybe he really was dead, or dying to some extent of the word, and this state of uneasiness and pain was the afterlife; a pitiful excuse for a personal hell. 

After days of stumbling about, with his exhausted, withered body running on autopilot as he headed back to those hallowed halls he’d once called home, he can sense the distinctive presence of the academy looming over him. The walls are starting to crumble, and there is filth and debris scattered everywhere, but he still feels a bitter sense of nostalgia weighing on his chest as he makes his way inside. All of the deteriorating classrooms seem simultaneously familiar and foreign to him as he searches desperately for her body, and the contrast is so stark and unsettling that it makes him feel sick, and he has to lean against the damaged wall as his body spasms; fruitlessly gagging in an attempt to purge something from himself that simply wasn’t there. 

He drops to his knees once he finally locates her; her mangled, half crushed corpse hastily dragged from the execution chamber into the hall. Despite the fact she was pale and bloated, and that her limbs were jutting out at awkward angles, he presses his hand against her chest and feels for a heartbeat. There’s so much dried blood covering her unmoving form, and she clearly isn’t breathing, but he clings onto a feeling that couldn’t possibly have been hope, praying to a god that he doesn’t even believe in that she is still alive. Her body flops to the side as he jostles it urgently, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking, silently begging that her dull, glassy eyes would regain their clarity and she’d sit up and laugh at him for his disgusting insolence. Her body was limp and cold in his arms, just like he’d always imagined, but he hadn’t been the one who’d been the stepping stone for the world’s hope to flourish again. He wasn’t the one who snuffed out her despicable, despairing life. 

This wasn’t fair. He had wanted to be the one to kill her. His body gives a gross sob, along with involuntary trembling and hiccuping as tears flood his eyes and drip down his face. He laughs so hard that he can feel pain rattling in his lungs, and quickly descends into a coughing fit, finding a pitiless irony in his own misery. He had always known himself to be a failure, completely devoid of any value, and now he’d lost the only purpose he could have possibly fulfilled; everything he’d ever thought he could have been worth in the world. He was less than worthless, just as useful and hopeful as the mutilated corpse he was clutching tightly in his quivering hands. He might as follow her into the nothingness of the afterlife and become maggot food, because at least that way, his pathetic existence could provide nutrients for the soil. 

He knows that there isn’t any conceivable death that would be painful enough to atone for what he’s done, and he can feel the taste of bile burning in his mouth at the thought that she’d been correct in her prediction that he’d commit suicide, but he needs to punish himself harshly for how much he’s contributed to ruining the world through her despair. He can feel the blood throbbing in his veins, pulsing with a desire to slash his fragile skin to pieces and bleed himself until there was nothing left to sustain him. He wants to break his worthless body down into a lifeless husk, forcing himself to reach the precipice of the most agonizing pain imaginable, all while preventing himself from crossing the threshold so he can destroy himself again and again. 

His wretched sobs sound distant to his own ears as he inspects her body carefully, burning the sight in his brain, knowing that it’ll make its way into his nightmares, and reveling in the fact that he deserves it. The mental pain of being so acutely aware of his worthlessness is excruciating, but he wants to exact an equal, yet opposite amount of physical pain upon himself to counter it, to carve an equilibrium of agony into his flesh until the blank emptiness of death wore its way into his brittle bones. He had loved and hated her more than he could ever describe in his base, meager language, and now she was gone and he had become nothing. It was worse than having no meaning, because at the very least, if he was simply a useless waste of space and oxygen, he wouldn’t be actively harming anybody. His already feeble mental state was rapidly torn apart by the knowledge that he had harmed so many people, and crushed so much of the world’s future, all for the sake of a deluded belief in a hope that he’d never be able to bring to fruition. 

“You truly are an Ultimate Despair now, Nagi. Congrats! Even though I’m gone, I know you’ll continue my legacy. I couldn’t be more proud.”

He can hear Junko’s words ringing in his ears so clearly, even though he knows that the body in his arms is dead and starting to rot; that shrill voice of her’s tormenting him even after she’s well and truly gone. Some more broken, scratchy laughter works its way into his bout of desolate weeping, finding a twisted sense of comedy in this mind-crushingly awful scenario. He probably should have registered it as proof that he’d completely lost reign on his fragile sanity, but all he could really do was choke himself through a giggling fit as he ruminated on how she was still torturing him, even after she died. 

He feels lightheaded and absolutely giddy with self-loathing exhilaration as he lifts her hand and brushes it against his cheek, pushing his fingers up against her wrist as if he were feeling for a pulse. Her palm feels so cold against his jawline, and when he starts to imagine that it’s still warm, he laughs so hard that his tears barely seem to mean anything anymore. His nerves are tingling with a sense of euphoric bliss as he fishes through his pockets to find his favorite knife, feeling so unbelievably lucky that he’s thought of such a fitting way to punish himself. 

“You and I can truly become one now, Enoshima! I will finally give myself to you, and your wonderful, horrible despair!”

He cackles, digging the blade of his knife into her skin and cautiously sawing his way through tissue and bone until he can separate her hand from the rest of her body. He figures out how he’ll gather all of the supplies he’ll need with a strange, unfamiliar calmness, quelling his excitement and trepidation effectively enough to put his plan of ultimate self punishment into motion. He finds himself in an old, worn down tool shed that had once belonged to Kazuichi, but had long since been abandoned. It contained many of the materials he would need to enact his plan, materials he could use hurt himself so badly that he could forget how his mind worked and lose himself in the despair of what Junko had molded him into. He would find freedom and oneness in his hatred for his own repulsive existence; the completeness of the despair that he’d been engulfed in would be his deliverance. 

Experiencing an anguish beyond his own pitiful comprehension could be his salvation, a cross that he wouldn’t mind dying on. He would make a martyr of himself, offer his mind and body up on an altar of his own suffering, and only succumb to the horror of it all and perish after inflicting as much pain onto himself as humanly possible. He swears he can see God swimming in his blood when he slides the serrated blade of the hacksaw against his finger to test its sharpness. He is the messiah of his own undoing, and he can’t wait to splatter his unholy ichor across the wooden work table that he straps his arm to. 

His hand is shaking so hard, but it doesn’t even feel like it’s his own anymore when he braces the saw against his skin, and the fearful quivering doesn’t even register in his brain until he pushes his way past his outer layer of flesh. He had measured the length of Junko’s arm against his own before he’d started, and he’d managed to convince himself in the time it took to complete the task that he’d reach divinity through the process of slowly sawing his own limb off, but he just finds himself screaming instead. Every single mind-bending, bone-crunching, skin-burning moment of the torture reminds him of how much of an awful person he is, and how deeply he deserves all of the pain he’s in, and much more. 

He pictures slamming his bloodied wrist onto a crucifix, nails pushing their way through his flesh and finding God somewhere within himself instead of cascading through his blood and sending pain through every nerve of his body. He wishes he could discover some messianic force pouring out of his bone marrow once he breached it, air making contact with the exposed white beneath grotesquely mutilated skin and tissue, but there is no such redemption within him. He retches at the sight of it, his stomach constricting tightly and forcing him to heave up blood tinged vomit. Reddened spittle still drips from his mouth as he continues, and he feels as though he might be going deaf to the sound of his own shrieking as he continues. 

The only thing he can hear is the ethereal chanting of an angelic choir all around him, or maybe it was just Junko, but he could still see those marvelous seraphs flitting about on wings of hatred and spasming muscle, serenading him with their songs of the lost. He can feel their celestial feathers brushing up against him and burning him, and the agony is propping his body up on a pedestal to suffer on, and he can feel a perverse smile worm it’s way upon his face when he starts gagging and throwing up even more blood. 

He gasps when he finally starts to feel the blade scrape against the wood of the table, making its way through his own arm and detaching it from the rest of himself. He undoes the blood soaked leather straps that were holding him down, and rips at the last few bits of skin and sinew holding his arm together, and grasps his own severed limb in his other hand. His disconsolate bawling quickly descends into resounding, harrowing laughter, that bursts forward from his lungs and echoes in the stagnating air that surrounds him. 

The blood loss is making him feel incredibly dizzy, and he manages to subdue his hysterical giggling enough to remind himself that he’ll probably die far too soon if he passes out from the blood loss. Luckily, he’d prepared for that eventuality. His intact hand scrabbles at the work table, blindly searching for a blow torch that he’d found when digging through the tool shed for supplies. The pain of all of that blood emptying out of him is so intense that the spots popping in front of his eyes feel like they might incapacitate him, but he makes purchase on the cool metal of its base. He points it at the stump where his hand used to be, still gushing blood and alight with the worst kind of agony, and scratches his bloodied, dirt caked fingernails against the trigger until a small flame shoots out of it. He hears his skin sizzling and burning as he scorches the ruined limb with the fire, and once it reaches him, the sound of his own distraught screeching and head pounding sounds so much louder to his own ears than it did before. He swears he can feel the skin melting and dripping down onto the table, but he keeps going until the wound is fully cauterized. 

He collapses to the ground, splashing into a puddle of his own blood and inhaling the smell of copper and seared flesh, accompanied by the smell of Junko’s revoltingly flowery perfume. It makes him feel like she’s still there, her spirit standing over him and crushing every last bit of hope he’d ever had beneath her heel, chuckling to herself and getting off on his misfortune all the while. She would have loved to see him like this, pushed to his wits end and on the precipice of death, and he couldn’t be happier to be a sacrificial lamb for the sake of her despair. He isn’t even sure if he’s laughing or crying anymore, and the thundering footsteps that he hears approaching him might just be the sound of his heartbeat giving out on him, despite all of the trouble he’d gone through to keep himself alive by cauterizing the wound. 

It truly was despairing. 

His vision goes white for a brief moment, and when he comes to, he’s in Izuru’s arms. The noir-haired man’s usually expressionless face is contorted into a look of distress, a frantic gleam of something akin to panic in his ruby red eyes. Nagito smiles lazily up at him, his brain far too sluggish to process anything except for Izuru’s gorgeous, miserable face. He certainly isn’t dead, because such beauty is far too close to heaven than he could ever possibly deserve. 

“What have you done?”

Izuru demands, and Nagito just muses idly that those words contain the most emotion he’s ever heard in Izuru’s voice. He slumps against Izuru’s chest, and Nagito sighs involuntarily when he feels those strong arms wrap around him. A disgusting person like him shouldn’t get to die this happy, but he doesn’t have nearly enough strength to fight him as his vision fades away in the comfort of Izuru’s warm embrace. 

He awakens again, regrettably, in and out of consciousness for a few moments before he regains his composure enough to understand what’s going on around him. He’s laying on the ground, and Izuru is cautiously tending to the blistering, burned skin at the end of his stump arm, wiping at it with a towel that must have been soaked in some kind of disinfectant. He whimpers at the stinging sensation, and this catches Izuru’s attention. 

“Thank goodness you’re awake...”

He fishes through his coat pocket and takes out a small bottle of pills, pouring a few into his hand and pressing them against his lips; silently commanding him to swallow them dry. He obeys without hesitation, closing his eyes and humming with contentment at the taste of Izuru’s fingers against his mouth. 

“They’re painkillers. Hopefully they’ll kick in soon and you won’t be hurting so much...”

He explains, his voice once again taking on the soothing, even monotone that it usually does. 

“Thank you so much, Kamukura-kun. You’re always so thoughtful to look out for a lowly, crawling bug such as myself, but you’re wasting your talent by doing this. You should have just let me die.” 

Izuru visibly tenses up at those words, seeming almost uncomfortable, but Nagito supposed that he must simply be irritated by the scratchy, unpleasant sound of his exhausted voice. 

“...No, I-“

“As a matter of fact, you’d be doing me a huge favor by putting me out of my misery, right here and now.”

He reaches up with his remaining hand, and grasps at Izuru’s wrists, taking hold of them and guiding his palms so that they map across his throat. He pushes against Izuru’s knuckles weakly, confused as to the reason why the raven haired man seems like a deer caught in headlights. 

“No!”

Izuru exclaims, and scoops him up suddenly, squeezing him tightly like he’s afraid to let go. Nagito quickly concludes that Izuru isn’t hugging him, because the Ultimate Hope would have no need to seek contact with a pitiful waste of life such as himself, and is probably just medically examining him. It wouldn’t make sense for somebody so amazing to be clinging to him fearfully, as if he’d slip through Izuru’s perfect fingers if he didn’t hold onto him tight enough. 

“You can’t die. You... can’t do this to yourself.” 

Izuru mumbles, stroking his dirty white hair, completely ignoring that it was matted with blood and absolutely filthy. Nagito smiles weakly, but still genuinely when Izuru pulls away so he can examine his grimy, blood-stained face, gently cupping his cheek and wiping at tear tracks that still hadn’t dried. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, Kamukura-kun! I was just trying to punish myself for my vile worthlessness! I was trying to become one with the Ultimate Despair...”

He beams, far too chipper for what he’s talking about. Izuru’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything, certainly perturbed by his revolting display. He felt as though he could faintly recall a reason as to why Izuru might be upset about him destroying himself, but he rejects it immediately. The memory of Izuru telling him how much he cares about him must be false. His mind simply won’t accept it right now. 

“Although, I actually am quite glad that you did come here. You can assist me with something I lack the expertise for! I know it’s selfish and awful for me to make any requests of you, but your help would be invaluable towards me completing this process.”

Nagito whispers, leaning his head against Izuru’s hand with a quivering sigh, white lashes fluttering. 

“What do you want me to do?”

He questions, his expression shifting back into something completely unreadable, not even the slightest hint of emotion making its way into his words this time. 

“I want you to help me sew her hand onto my arm. It would be difficult for me to handle the stitching with just one hand, and you’re far more skilled when it comes to that sort of thing anyways.”

He chirps, his beatific smile contrasting his malnourished, shaking, and thoroughly blood-smeared body rather alarmingly. Izuru’s crimson eyes narrow, and he takes a moment to ponder Nagito’s words before answering. 

“I can assist you with that, but I will only do it under one condition.” 

Nagito tilts his head to the side in confusion, looking up at him with a vacant expression, his cheeriness starting to get swept away under the painkiller’s effect on him. 

“What’s that, Kamukura-kun?”

He asks, words slurring together as he tries to remain focused. 

“You have to promise me that you’ll never hurt yourself like this again. I know I can’t quell the urges you might have to harm yourself simply by making such a request of you, but... I’d rather you confide in me if you’re ever possessed by the need to destroy yourself in such a way. I want you to try and talk to me if you ever feel this way again. I hate seeing you suffer like this.” 

Nagito just laughs halfheartedly, and nods his head ever so slowly. 

“You’re so strange, Kamukura-kun. If you keep treating me with such kindness, I might just start to think that you like me.”

Izuru diverts his gaze, thumb wiping at a wayward tear that rolls down the white haired man’s face. 

“I was... scared, when I saw you like that. Or rather, I felt the closest thing to fear my mind could supply me with. I don’t want you to die.” 

Nagito is momentarily taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, but chuckles softly once he finds a way to dismiss the idea that Izuru genuinely, earnestly likes him. 

“You say such confusing things sometimes. I guess I’m just far too stupid to comprehend what somebody as perfect as you might be thinking about.” 

Nagito murmurs, and just Izuru huffs quietly and starts pawing around in the dim lighting of the shed to find the thread required for the stitches while still staring down at the disheveled man who was relaxing into his touch. 

“I know you understood that, but it wouldn’t be productive to have a discussion about this now. Let’s just get this over with, and then I will see to it that you get some proper rest.”

The painkillers have completely numbed him by the time Izuru starts sewing Junko’s bloodless, immaculately manicured hand against the charred stump of his wrist, and he watches with a detached fascination as the needle threads in and out of the ruined, blistering skin that remained there. He feels incredibly content as he watches Izuru work, and after a few short moments of watching him intently, Izuru bites off the last of the thread. He seems to have fully attached Junko’s hand to his arm, and now the Ultimate Despair is forever a part of him. He chuckles weakly, eyes glazing over as Izuru carefully wraps the stitching in thick white bandages. 

“There...”

Izuru breathes once he’s finished, and plants an ephemeral kiss right above the threshold where Junko’s arm meets his own skin, and his lips just narrowly avoid brushing against the dead limb. Nagito is half delirious when Izuru lays him against the ground to sleep, babbling words of adoration and gratitude as Izuru takes off his blazer and lays it over Nagito’s body like a blanket. He pets Nagito’s knotted white hair until his breathing evens out, and paces anxiously near his sleeping form once he drifts off. 

He resigns himself to staying awake so he can monitor Nagito’s condition, and carry him to somewhere safe with lots of food and medical supplies in the morning. Despite himself, he’s grown insatiably fond of the feeble man sleeping soundly at his feet, and he is determined to do everything in his power to keep him alive and happy, even if he doesn’t fully comprehend the source of his fondness. The fact that seeing Nagito so close to death had made him feel something resembling an emotion was interesting, and it only seemed to intensify each time it happened. He kneels down next to Nagito, and smiles down at him, the curve of his lips feeling so strange upon his face. He just couldn’t help but feel so oddly content, basking in the knowledge that Nagito’s heart was still beating; that at least for the time being, he was safe and sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter very late at night, and I think it REALLY shows. There might still be some spelling or grammatical mistakes, but I will comb through it later. I decided to write in a different style than I normally would, taking a more “stream of consciousness” approach when Nagito’s mental state starts seriously deteriorating. I hope the more abstract part is comprehensible and makes some semblance of sense, and isn’t just pretentious and ridiculous purple prose. As for the update schedule for this project, I will probably have the last chapter finished within a month or two, and there is also a sequel to this fic in the works as well. Thank you so much all for joining me on this wild ride, and I sincerely hope you all enjoy it to the fullest!

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post this after I’d gotten more work done on “Learning to Warm Cold Hands,” but this chapter is done, and there’s no point in sitting on it. It’s about as dark as far as subject matter goes, but a lot more explicitly violent and gory. I suppose the fic being set during the despair era gives me an excuse. And yes, all of the chapter titles are going to be Teen Suicide/American Pleasure Club song names. I don’t want to think too much on how that might reflect on my mental health. I hope you all enjoy, regardless.


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